Chapter 23

We walked briskly inside the building, not speaking or even looking at one another. I was in a bad mood. The cuffs were still on, he was being an ass, and I had lost. Well, lost is a strong word. More of I surrendered under false pretences and subsequently I found myself in an awkward position I didn't really want to talk about.

"Sherlock," a man said, greeting my rather smug captor. "Long time no see." They shook hands.

"Yes, it has been a while." Sherlock glanced at me. "I suppose I should introduce you. Helen, this is-"

"Lestrade!" I said, plastering a cheesy smile on my face. "How are you good buddy, ol pal. I've got to say I've been looking forward to meeting you for a while. You're the only normal one in this crazy cast of well dressed men." John at me looked, offended. "Yes, you're crazy too. You live with Sherlock after all." I stuck out my hand, which meant Sherlock did too.

He shook it, staring at the cuffs with interest. "Nice to meet you to. Helen was it?"

"Yes, Helen Richardson." I let go, watching as his eyes traced the path our hands fell. "You can ask. It's okay, I won't get angry."

He chewed the inside of his cheek. "Handcuffs..."

"Lovely, aren't they?" I held my hand up so he could better observe. "Mr. Sherloaf Holmes over there keeps insisting I wear them. Nasty business." I pushed them closer to Lestrade's face. "Just look at the job they've done on my skin! Isn't it awfully cruel. You should arrest him for wrongful imprisonment."

"Wait a minute," Lestrade said. "Those are mine! How the in the bloody hell did you get my cuffs?"

"Now you should arrest him doubly so." I raised my eyebrows at Sherlock. "Tut tut, Sherlock. Stealing doesn't become you whatsoever."

Lestrade looked at the detective. "She's right Sherlock. I've half a mind to smack you on the back of the head too. Come on, take them off." He looked expectantly at him. "Go on, I want them back right now." My now silent friend complied, shooting me a disgruntled look.

I massaged my wrist and beamed. "That's much better. Now where's the thing?"

He looked at me. "The thing? What thing?"

"The thing you called Sherlock down here for. The thingie that was in the flat that blew up across from Baker St. You know, the one you had x-rayed for safety but was unable to find anything dangerous inside but the outside has Sherlock's name on it so you called him down so he could open it. Thing." He looked at me with squinted eyes. "Come on Lestrudel. Let's go see the thing before it runs off into the night."

"Right," he said. "Follow me." We wound our way through the office. "You like the funny cases don't you. The surprising ones."

"Obviously," Sherlock replied.

"You're gonna love this. That explosion," he said.

"Gas leak, yes?" the consulting detective asked. I waved as we passed Sally.

"No," I interrupted. They both ignored me. Well, if they were going to ignore me then I would do my damnest to ignore them in return. Bloody men with their jerk ass ways. Half the time it's not even worth it. Honestly I don't even know why I bothered being snarky.

And just like that we were in a cab heading back to Baker St. Woah, I didn't plan on checking out of the conversation for that long. I should have probably kept a tad closer eye on those sorts of things. Out of the corners of my eyes I saw Sherlock avoiding my gaze. It only took a guess for the reason why. He has received a picture of my flat on the pink phone. Of course it could be coincidence, but I think he was inclined to deduce otherwise. I hummed a bit of Stayin' Alive to keep me calm. It was very possible that Sherlock would use one of his questions in the near future. He could easily tell if I was lying, so I would have to tell the truth. And that didn't sound like a fun prospect. Why couldn't I be mysterious like Irene Adler so he couldn't do that?

We got out of the cab and made our way inside. I was about to lead the way to my flat when he stopped me.

"How did you know we were going to your flat?" He asked, trying to catch me into admitting I knew something. It was a fair question though. I hadn't seen the picture and nobody had talked about my flat specifically up to this point. But I could dodge this one.

"Hey, it is as you said my flat. Maybe I just wanted to go home. But now that you bring it up, why are you going to my flat?" I stared him down. "I don't have to let you in you know. You're not my landlord, because that's Mrs. Hudson's title. I'm pretty sure you only qualify as a neighbour. Although you are a ruddy one at that. Been living there for a few days now and you haven't even given me a homecoming gift. That's very rude of you. Tell you what: to prove how nice I am in comparison to your shoddy demeanour, I will let you in. Don't say I never let you have nothing."

Lestrade chuckled, then after Sherlock glared at him, coughed loudly. John his own smile. I openly smirked. Serve him right. I opened the door and Sherlock brushed right past me, wanting to get in there before I screwed something up.

It was dead silent as we came upon the shoes. My eyes kept flitting to Sherlock, not sure what he made of this. Did he suspect me of planting them here? It was my flat after all. I wouldn't blame him for coming to that conclusion. It was a perfectly sound and reasonable argument til make.

"Shoes," John said. Sherlock moved closer. "He's a bomber, remember." John was so obviously concerned for his safety that it made my heart flutter. Must... control... OTP... feels...

Sherlock bent down to observe them when the pink phone suddenly rang, diffusing the tense atmosphere somewhat. He stood back up and pulled it out. His fingers pressed a button. There was a slight pause, and then... "Hello?"

"H-hello, sexy." It was the woman. Her voice was trembling. My stomach flipped, but not in a good way. I willed myself not to listen to her plight, not listen to her being used as a puppet by Moriarty, not listen to the pain she was in. I didn't like this. It reminded me of Soo Lin Yao. A part of me truly believed that what was happening was happening, that this woman's anguish was real, and my sympathy for her was likewise. It made sense emotionally, but not logically. This was a dream. Dreams should not elicit such complex emotions. The harder I tried to not think about it, the more this issue began to irk me. I must not be trying hard enough.

I looked around and jumped a little. We were at St. Bart's now. I must have been thinking too hard if that happened. Sherlock was at a microscope, while John was presumably elsewhere in the hospital at the moment.

"Good to see you stirring again," Sherlock commented. "I nearly suggested to Molly that she cart you down to her lab and perform an autopsy on you. It seems that won't be necessary." I tried to speak but he cut me off. "Before you ask you've been sitting in that chair for roughly two hours. Despite your presence, I was able to get on testing these shoes without distraction. Most likely due to the silence."

"Silence will fall," I muttered absentmindedly.

"What was that?" He asked, not taking his eyes off his work.

"Nothing," I said with a sigh. John walked in with a cup of coffee. I nodded at him, then returned to my internal stupour. Which didn't last long. A beeping sounded from the desktop Sherlock was running tests on. I hopped out of my seat to take a look. Molly popped in.

"Any luck?" She asked.

"Oh yes," he replied.

"Oh sorry, I didn't..." My eyes turned. I had forgotten. How could I forget? Yet there he was. Standing there. Acting gay. Whether or not he should. So somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have something- totally and utterly wicked and not deserving of having to mentally control myself harder then I ever had in my entire life and oh my god it was Moriarty what the fuck was even happening wipe that smile off your vile face you ledge pusher you. I mean, good. Yeah, that's how the lyrics go.

"Jim, oh, hi!" He looked nervous. The little bitc- "Come in, come in." I was happy to be on the other side of Sherlock, the one furthest from the door. Sherlock had his eyes set towards the exit, no doubt frustrated Molly was inviting someone to interrupt the sanctity of his experimentation. "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes." I nearly giggled as Sherlock purposefully kept his eyes averted. "And uh... sorry."

"John Watson, hi," he said.

"Hi," Moriarty responded. Oh excuse me, I meant "Jim". Ass.

"Oh, and uh this is Helen Richardson." Molly smiled at me kindly. I was glad to see all trace of jealousy out of her eyes. Nice change.

I looked him up and down quickly. "A pleasure to meet you, Jim." I offered my hand. It took every gram of willpower, but I managed to smile in as genuine a way as I could muster. He shook it, and I was glad of my long sleeves as they hid my goose pimples. He truly was terrifying.

"You as well," he said. He looked at Sherlock. "So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?" He crossed over and passed by me, brushing my clothes as he went past. I repressed a shudder. Have you ever tried repressing a shudder? It's surprisingly hard. Literally your whole body has to tense up in effort because a shudder is a very hard thing to control. It should be a villain in some t.v. show, and the main characters have to fight off the urge to shudder or else an electrical impulse is sent to your brain, and after you get too many of them, well, consider yourself dead. What was I talking about again? Oh, that's right. Shuddering. STAHP BODY WITH THE URGE TO MAKE MY DISGUST MANIFEST.

Sherlock took one look at him and muttered, "gay."

The scene that followed is so uncomfortable that I dare not recount it. Molly finished storming out when I smacked Sherlock on the back of the head. "Maybe you can experiment some tact from these vintage shoes while I go try and undo the damage." As I was leaving Sherlock shouted at me.

"That statement made use of no coherent logic."

"Neither do your social skills," I shouted back. I flung the door open and found her running down the hallway. "Molly!" She turned a corner. "Why do they keep running?" I thought out loud. "It's always like this. People run and when you shout at them, they just keep on running?" I rounded the corner and saw her heading into a room. I went over to it and knocked. "Molly, it's Helen. Can I come in?" No answer. "Molly, as much as I would like to come in and comfort you, I will not do so without your consent."

"Come in," she replied. I opened the door and found her sewing up a corpse. "I'm just finishing up am autopsy and have to sew the skin together. As long as you don't mind, of course."

"You want to vent? I asked.

She slammed down her hands on the table. "He's an unmitigated and incomprehensible ass." I smirked a little. She was not so much hurt as she was angry. "How does anyone just take his insults? I mean, he doesn't think they're insults but they are, and I'm sick and tired of them. Oh god I wish I could just slap him in the face!"

"Then do it," I said.

"W-what?" She was taken aback.

"Slap him. Next time he pisses you off, slap him. That's what I'd do if I were you. No mercy. Go to town on him. I guarantee you'll feel much better afterwards. It's kind of a cleansing action. He goes around thinking he's all high and mighty. And he will continue thinking that way if you let him." I pointed at her. "You need to slap him. I promise you, you'll never feel inferior again."

"Are you sure?" She asked.

"Go for it sweetie." I opened the door. "You won't regret it." I waved a quick bye and then left. That was a good conversation. Maybe she really would slap him... I'd pay good money to see that! I rounded the corner once more when I collided with someone. "Oh my god, I am so sorry, are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm f-fine, are you?" I looked at who I ran into and my stomach dropped about fifteen stories. This ass whole. "Jim". Bleh. "You're that girl from before..."

"Guilty," I said with a forced smile. I looked him up and down again. "You know, you really don't look like the type of guy to flash his underwear." Helen. No. Stop this now. Don't do it. Don't do it. Just don't do it.

"Oh really," he said. "What kind of guy do I look like?"

"Eh, I guess you give off more of a," I paused for a second. I willed myself not to say what I was about to say. I also failed. "Westwood kind of guy."

He stopped and stared at me for a moment, his smile gone. I smiled back add innocently as possible. What the fuck did you just do Helen? Did you just out yourself in front of the evil mastermind? Helen, you're a dumbass.

His smile was back. He even laughed. "Whatever gave you that impression?"

Don't be a smartass, don't be a smartass, don't be a smartass...

"I dunno," I said. "Guess you just sorta scream 'I'm the villain, I was behind it all, me me me!' But don't worry, you pull it off very well." I walked past him, then turned back. "Tell Molly I said good luck, will you?" I smiled even wider as he relaxed as little. "Bye!" I turned heel and began dancing down the hall. An evil thought crept into my mind. No, Helen. Bad Helen. I spun around to find him watching me. It was perfect. Perfectly stupid. "Ah ah ah ah, stayin' alive, stayin' alive." I hummed the rest and danced my way backwards, watching his face not change expression the entire time.

What in the bloody hell have I done?

HERE. HAVE AT IT YOU CRAZY PEOPLE. I LOVE YOU ALL. CAN YOU TELL IT'S LATE FOR ME? I NEED SLEEP. UGH.

In other news, I have fan art! OMG SOMEONE DID FANART! It's done by user InterestingName, and I've made it the cover art for this story. AHHH! If anyone wants to do fan art, you are welcome to it. In case you've noticed, I've omitted any description of Helen from the story. Why? I don't want to have to write it in. Describing my character physically in a story always feels inorganic. So I just avoided it altogether. I think I mentioned she's shorter then Sherlock. That's the extent of description. If you want to draw her, use your imagination.

IMAGINATION! Next update is next Friday. If I don't meet it, you can raise hell. Until then!